Bug transit
736 Words
BUG TRANSIT
Peshawar lay behind them. The road led east, towards their rendezvous. There was no need for a map, in fact there were no maps. The route was clear and for Dan, at least, the morning had passed quickly behind the wheel. He could see Fred and Tim scratching in the rear-view mirror. Traffic was light but mad enough. Several times he’d had to dodge heavily laden camels floating out into the street, their drivers waving at the bus t rough clouds of choking dust. A flock of stubborn sheep brought the bus to an abrupt halt just as Damo Suzuki launched into Peking O.
“Told you that room looked really dodgy. Full of f*****g bugs. You’re going to contaminate the entire bus.”
Fred moaned, “How are we going to get rid of the f*****g things? My scalp and my balls are on fire, man.”
“Smoke some more dope, mon ami,” Thierry suggested from the back seat. Like Dan he’d been lucky and picked a bug-free bed.
“When we get to Madyan, we’ll boil all our clothes, wash ourselves in Dettol or something. That should do the trick.”
Tim was in a good mood despite the infestation that had left a small, neat strip of red dots running in two parallel rows across his narrow face, like a half-finished application of tribal war paint.
Turning to Fred, he said, “You might have to cut your beard and hair. Could be a good move before we cross into India, anyway. I don’t believe they’ve got such a beard fixation there. And it might mellow out that mad stare that you’ve had ever since you started dropping acid in Germany. Jesus, that seems like f*****g ages ago.”
Fred sat sulking. He pulled up his shirt to reveal two diagonal lines of bites, crossing his chest like bandoleers.
“There’re whole civilisations starting up here, colonising us. These guys are organised, like.”
Dan laughed, “They look like they know where they’re going. I’m sure they read a map better than you.”
Once off the main road, they passed several more Agency gates, standing solitary amongst low hills. The landscape was dull, unsullied by trees, as if transient locust clouds had devoured all signs of growth. Yet its desolate beauty completely captivated the partially attentive travelers. Here and there family homes – more fortresses – dotted the hills, invariably in strategic spots, overlooking the void. It was hard to creep up on anyone or anything in North West Pakistan.
Roadside shops sold sweet tea and stringy goat meat swimming in fat and orange lentils. Soaked up in fresh oven-baked bread it tasted just fine. The road led gently upwards, following the broad Swat River into ever-more looming hills, overgrown with green brush. Apricot trees lined the riverbanks. Women, their heads wrapped in bright scarves, sat on flat stones above the churning water, washing clothes, while kids splashed around in the freezing shallows.
“This was all Buddhist once.”
Thierry had moved to the front, carefully avoiding physical contact with his contaminated companions. The wiry Frenchman winced out the window.
“What happened?” Fred asked.
“The Hindus came, and then the Muslims. And until a few years ago, this was a truly independent Islamic kingdom, nothing to do with Pakistan. A fine example of hundreds of years of concentrated c*****e in a small place. Oh, and of course, you British were here too, and who knows who might snow through here in the future, thinking they can get a slice of the action…. merde,” he gasped as Dan hit the brakes hard yet again.
Two brightly painted buses had stopped on a blind corner in the middle of the road. Male passengers stepped briskly from the vehicles, across the ditch onto a wooden platform. Men were rolling out their prayer mats and kneeling to face Mecca.
Thierry turned the music down as they passed slowly, admiring the spectacularly garish paint jobs on the buses, trying to catch a glimpse of the women who remained on the bus or had quickly taken to the shrub on the other side of the road for their morning toilet. The men prayed. A group of young boys stood staring proudly; only as the bus had passed, did they break into a run, waving and smiling after the vehicle.
“It’s magic. It’s all magic out here.”
Dan was shouting out of the window.
“You beautiful people in your beautiful land, we’re here to share your incredible experiences.”
The kids shouted back.
The Frenchman passed him a joint.
The others continued scratching, magic or not.
- Writer
